Monomania
by EmotionalTether
Summary: Storm clouds are coalescing over Beacon Hills and something evil is growing within them. But Stiles is already too preoccupied with a darkness looming over his own life. That is, until he finds himself pursued by the new resident evil. And when the seductive villain offers him something invaluable - a solution to all his problems - maybe Stiles just can't find the will to resist.
1. Normal

Normal is a relative term. Normal means to conform to a standard; the usual, typical or expected. What one person believes to be bizarre, another would perceive to be the average occurrence. Therefore, relatively speaking, a string of disappearances and murders was normal in Beacon Hills.

"Okay Scott, are you kidding me?" Stiles demanded, rattling the combination on his locker with irritation. "Since when has a grotesque string of murders straight out of a horror-porno _ever_ actually turned out to be just your regular old serial killer? This is _Beacon Hills_ we're talking about here."

"Horror-porno?" Scott responded simply.

"They found the victims tied up with ropes and chains," Stiles informed him with a grave nod. " _And_ their corpses were all like... grey and withered. _Grey and withered._ If that doesn't scream supernatural evil to you, I don't know what else to say."

"Okay, you're right," Scott replied with a sigh, adjusting the strap of his sports bag on his shoulder, already fully equipped in lacrosse gear. "It's probably worth investigating."

"Probably?" Stiles said, finally thumbing open his locker. Digging out his lacrosse kit, along with a few other supernatural-fighting essentials – torch, aluminium bat, adderal – he turned back to his friend with narrowed eyes.

The resident werewolf sighed again. "Fine, we'll definitely look into it."

"That's what I'm talking about," Stiles grinned, slamming the locker shut with just a little too much enthusiasm, causing a piercing metallic screech and Scott to wince. It wasn't exactly unlike Stiles to be over-eager when it came to the detective part of the whole supernatural business. "'Kay Scotty boy, so when do you wanna do this? After lacrosse practise?"

"After lacrosse practise?" Scott echoed in disbelief. "Dude, I'm exhausted. I, uh- I spent the night at Kira's. Can't we just wait till the weekend?"

"Okay, first of all, thank you for that not very subtle suggestion as to what you two have been doing," Stiles said, stuffing his aluminium bat into his lacrosse bag. "Secondly, people could be dying, Scott. _Dying_ , while you and your girlfriend bone – which would actually be quite ironic if you didn't use contraception."

"But it's Friday evening," the werewolf protested. "Literally just a couple hours. Nothing can go wrong in just a couple hours, right?"

"Famous last words," Stiles said loftily, stripping off his shirt and shoving on his lacrosse jersey. "Well, either way, I'm going down to the Sheriff Station later to check it out."

"And your dad's okay with you poking your nose into it?" Scott inquired as the two boys finally made their way out of the locker room side by side.

"My dad is at an out of town police conference for the weekend, and does not need to know what he does not need to know," Stiles informed Scott, pausing in his stride for a moment to regard his friend. "Which... reminds me. Don't tell your mom about this, because she will tell my dad, and he will hobble me. Also, feel free to stay over at my place for the weekend if you want."

Scott grinned at his friend, shaking his head with amused disbelief. "Well I'm staying at Kira's tonight and tomorrow-"

"Of course you are, because _copulation-_ "

"...But I should be free Sunday night, so we can order Mexican or whatever then," Scott finished, and in unison the two pushed open the doors out of the school and onto the lacrosse field. As soon as the fresh snap of spring wind hit them, however, both boys stopped abruptly.

A storm was brewing. The sky was granite grey, darkening the world below with its shadow; the lush grass of the field dulled from jade to a grimy green, and any light that had managed to leak through the cloud veil was thin and meek. Practically crackling with static electricity, the air all around them was humid, thick. A violent shudder worked its way down Stiles's spine. He could feel it, deep in his bones and chilling him to the very core – something was coming. Something bad.

"Looks we've got the weekend indoors, dude," he stated absently, tipping his chin up to the sky. Scott said nothing. Stiles frowned, before noticing his friend was staring at something else-

There was a crowd in the middle of the lacrosse field. A concerned murmur rose from the people, all huddled around something. Something twitching, writhing. Stiles squinted, trying to understand what he was seeing. Under the sky's shade, it was difficult to make it out – looking covered in brown, almost like rust... And then he realised.

"Holy shit," he cursed under his breath, before he and Scott began to hurriedly make their way across the field towards the crowd. Stiles felt almost detached, every sensation dulled besides the panicked pump of his heart. When they reached the huddle, however, he finally felt something else. Sick.

It was a boy. The crowd surrounded a boy. He was utterly deranged, screaming wildly and his body contorting in vicious spasms. He was soaked in a rusty crimson that Stiles now understood to be dried blood. The boy's own, evident from the number of savage lacerations criss-crossing his chest. His _bare_ chest. The boy had no clothes, aside from a tattered pair of pants and loops of torn rope dangling from his wrists.

 _They found the victims tied up with ropes and chains._

Wide-eyed, Stiles looked over to Scott. "Do you think-?"

"Yes," Scott nodded, his brows sewn together in a solemn frown. Breathing deeply, the werewolf's voice then took on a tone Stiles knew well – his authoritative, alpha tone – and then he turned to address the panicked crowd of lacrosse players and students. "Everyone get back, okay? Give him some room. We need to call 911."

The crowd immediately parted and spread out, a couple of people fishing out their phones while others exchanging apprehensive looks. Stiles couldn't help but feel awed by the power Scott was able to exert. He was no dictator; he simply earned people's respect.

Once the students had effectively dispersed and called for help, Scott and Stiles then moved in to inspect the boy whose vicious spasms had finally stilled. Now he merely laid flat on his back, eyes shut as though he were having a blissful daydream – not a nightmare. Scott lowered himself down and went to take the boy's hand – and then instantly wrenched it back. The very moment his skin had come into contact with the other boy's, black veins had begun to spider-web up the werewolf's arm.

"He's in pain. A lot of it," Scott said hoarsely, his face twisting as the black veins worked their way up his neck.

"It doesn't take a genius to figure that one out," Stiles said, crouching down besides Scott. "Look at his chest – it's completely... lacerated. What in the hell could have done that? And why? Why is he alive, and the others dead?"

"I don't know," Scott whispered. Setting his jaw, he reached over to take the injured boy's hand again. Almost instantaneously, black veins began to sprawl up his arm; but this time, the werewolf simply grit his teeth and endured the pain.

"Scott..." Stiles cautioned.

"I'll be fine," Scott managed to get out between clenched teeth. "He won't. The ambulance needs to get here quick. I don't know how much longer he has left, but I can feel it. I can feel him – he's..."

"Dying," Stiles said quietly.

The werewolf shook his head. "No, not – not dying. Not quite, anyway. It's – it's hard to explain. Part of him is dying, though. I know that. I just don't really get what part."

"Ah, that doesn't sound cryptic and ominous at all," Stiles muttered, before adding: "Can you get a scent? Y'know, of whatever attacked him?"

"Not with all this blood masking it," Scott replied. He looked at Stiles with an uneasy expression, before his eyes flicked up to something coming up from behind his human friend. The paramedics had arrived. The two teens were quickly ushered away then, and they now watched as the other boy was carried away on a gurney, an oxygen mask and IV drip already in place. Besides the occasional swell of his chest, the boy remained utterly still.

"So what now?" Stiles said, keeping his voice low.

" _Now_ we get on with this damn lacrosse practise," Coach Finstock announced, suddenly materialising and clamping his hands down on Scott and Stiles's shoulders. He gave them both a vigorous shake. "I don't care that some whack-job got high on bath salts, nothing – _nothing –_ is going to save you two little delinquents from these suicide runs."

Stiles gave Coach a long, exasperated look. "Coach, he didn't get high on bath salts. He's the fifth victim this week. I'm gonna have to call my dad-"

"Oh-ho, I don't think so, Stilinski," Coach interrupted, giving the skinny boy another shake.

"Come on Coach, this is a real life freaking issue; not some stupid lacrosse game," Stiles protested.

"If you're trying to win my favour, don't insult my life's work," Coach growled. "Now you're gonna get on with this damn practise, you're going to run until you cry, or you're getting a D in Econ."

"You can't do that!" Stiles stammered out, gaping at the man. Even Scott looked appalled.

"I can, and I will. Now you two better get your asses on the field and run," Coach shoved the boys forward. "And I want to see actual tears rolling down your cheeks, or that D can and will be negotiated down to an F."

"There's actually a mental diagnosis for people like him," Stiles muttered angrily as he and Scott made their way over to the tracks. "Sadist. He's a sadist. He wants us to suffer, and I bet it's because he gets some weird-ass titillation from collecting and then freaking _drinking_ our tears."

Scott kept his head low, fists clenched. "Stiles, it doesn't matter. We still need to figure out what's going on."

"Oh yeah, I'm well aware," Stiles scowled. The two boys reached the tracks, and then began to pick up a steady jogging pace. "So what the hell _are_ we going to do? If the kid screaming bloody murder didn't make it apparent, we need to do something. Something, preferably immediately. And yes, by the way, I am going to say I _told you so._ "

"I know, Stiles," Scott said tolerantly. "We're going to need to find the others."

"Okay, so as soon as we can, we get out of lacrosse practise and you call the Pack, alright?" Stiles huffed out, already struggling to keep up with Scott's werewolf-powered pace. "I'll take my Jeep and go to the Hospital; see if there's even the slightest chance we can get some kind of information out of that kid."

Scott nodded, noticeably becoming more confident as their plan began to solidify. "Right. And I can track his scent. We don't know what attacked him, but his blood is everywhere. At least we can find out where he came from, and then maybe-"

"-And then maybe we can find whatever attacked him," Stiles finished. Scott nodded again, and the human finally allowed himself a relieved grin. They could do this. They could most definitely do this. Compared to what they'd come up against before, this was a walk in the park, really.

And then Stiles saw her.

Against his will, he came to an abrupt halt. Scott, amused, continued to run along – he assumed that his friend had already had enough of the suicide runs. But it wasn't that. Stiles, upon seeing her, had become transfixed. Transfixed, because he was pretty sure she was an angel.

She was white and gold and ice, like a fleck of everlasting snow in the warm spring air. Her silky ribbon hair was the pale yellow of a winter sun, and her petite and slender frame was draped in cloth of cold, steel blue. She stood just on the tree line fringing the lacrosse field, but even at this distance Stiles could see her eyes – they were piercing, the irises so pale a grey Stiles absently thought they could have been white.

He knew he should have been scared. He knew he should have stayed away. She was something ethereal, something _other._ And yet, he found his feet drawing himself closer to her. Stiles was hardly aware of his actions now; he could feel her gaze on his, those horrifyingly beautiful eyes of white stark against his brown, and suddenly all that seemed to matter was _her._

" _Stilinski!"_

Reality came as a hot, jarring slap to the face, shocking Stiles out of his trance. Blinking dazedly, feeling as though there were ice instead of blood in his veins, Stiles turned to face the owner of the voice. A glowering, ruddy-faced Coach Finstock stormed across the field over to him.

"Yes, Coach..?" Stiles asked, his words coming out a little slurred.

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?" Coach demanded, jabbing his finger at Stiles's chest. "Was I not explicit enough before? Are you mentally deficient?"

"Sorry, I, uh – I was..." Stiles trailed off, scanning the tree line again. He couldn't quite remember what he had even been looking at in the first place. His brow furrowed, and he turned to the fuming Finstock again. "Yeah, sorry Coach. Suffered a momentary heart aneurysm or whatever. Guess I was training too hard. So yeah, I probably should sit the rest of practise out, right? Right."

"Stilinski, you alone are the reason I have lost faith in your generation," the Coach replied in his typical complimentary fashion. "But to be honest, I'd rather you just get out of my sight."

"Thanks Coach. Appreciate it!" Stiles grinned, before directing a thumbs up in Scott's direction, who had finally stopped to notice the commotion. Scott quirked up a questioning eyebrow. Stiles tried to mouth back an answer, but upon seeing Coach's scowl and Scott's dumbfounded expression, he gave up and hastily made his way off the field. Scott would eventually figure it out anyway.

After picking up his lacrosse kit and changing into his usual jeans and plaid shirt – paired with a witty tee, of course – Stiles clambered into the Jeep and began shifting through his bag for his phone. Seeing as Scott was still caught up at practise, he would have to call the others. Most bizarrely, however, it appeared he had forgotten his phone. Stiles groaned; today of all days was not the best to be disorganised.

As panic took hold, Stiles became more and more feverish as he rifled through his bag before he finally let out an infuriated shout, and threw it at the dashboard. It bounced off the surface, hitting the Jeep's floor with a hard thump.

"Great, this is really, really great," he muttered to himself, gathering the contents of the lacrosse kit that had spilled out. "Good job, Stiles. Because if there's one thing they teach you in Supernatural-Hunting 101, it's to _never_ forget your phone. I might as well say 'I'll be right back' and wait for the serial killer to come and brutally murder me."

Stiles continued to shove things back into his bag, his blood throbbing with abrupt, unexplained anger – until all of a sudden his hands stilled. On the floor of the Jeep rested a small packet of pills. Anti-depressants, to be exact. Tenderly, as though they could set off a bomb, Stiles reached down to pick the packet up. He had forgotten he had thrown them to the Jeep's floor this morning, after having had them firmly placed in his palm by his father earlier – just before he had left for the police conference, actually.

 _"_ _Stiles, you know that's not true," Sheriff Stilinski had responded, exasperated, to Stiles's accusation. "Depression isn't an illness or a disease, and it certainly doesn't define you. It just is. And I know it's scary to accept, but – What with your mother, and me not having been the best parent certainly... Well, it was always something I... I worried about."_

 _"_ _You thought it was inevitable," Stiles finished for him, furious. "That I was just some ticking time bomb of depression, waiting to go off. I saw the leaflet, Dad – 'Children having suffered an early bereavement are predisposed to depressive symptoms', or what-the-hell ever that means. I seriously cannot believe you buy into that crap."_

 _His father sighed, his voice taking on a tone of irritation. "Stiles..."_

Stiles opened his eyes. The memory quickly dissipated, but the pain of it still felt sharp and keen like a sting. Stiles's face felt stiff, and he realised he had been gritting his teeth. Opening his mouth, he worked his jaw around a bit, before tossing the anti-depressants back onto the floor. The pills rattled inside the packet, a surprisingly obnoxious sound for an inanimate object. There was no way in hell was he taking those stupid things.

He was fine. He was completely fine. He knew how to handle himself; he would take any emotions, any niggling thoughts, and he would shove them down, cover them up. And that was fine. That worked. Far better than any pills ever could.

Jerking the Jeep into ignition, Stiles peeled out of the school parking lot and onto the road. If he couldn't call the others, he could at least go down to the hospital and check in on that kid. The drive was reasonably short, and didn't allow Stiles's mind to wander onto anything but the task at hand. He did note, however, that the malevolent sky was still churning and gurgling above dangerously. Stiles knew that didn't bode well. Instinctually, he pressed his foot further down on the gas pedal.

The moment Stiles arrived at the hospital, he gunned the Jeep's engine – regardless of his rather appalling example of a bay park – and darted inside. He thankfully saw Melissa at the front desk, and she was quick to usher him into the injured boy's room.

"Make sure not to cause any commotion, or distress him too much," she warned as she gently pushed open the door. "The poor kid has clearly suffered some trauma. Nobody's been able to get much information out of him so far. I heard from the paramedics that he was screaming before, but now... nothing. He's so still, I think – I think that's worse."

"I think you're right," Stiles agreed quietly, stepping into the room. Just as he was about to close the door behind him, Melissa caught his arm.

"This is pretty much a given now, but Stiles – be careful," she said, her voice gentle. Stiles didn't think she was aware, but her thumb was making soothing circles on the skin of the arm she held. It was a rather motherly gesture, and he felt his heart tug. Maybe he would never have a mother again; but he would always have Melissa. Of course, he thought this before she said: "And if you tell anyone about this, I will gladly stand by as your father hobbles you for interfering."

"Ah. Noted," Stiles said, his voice at a slightly higher octave than normal. He carefully retracted his arm from Melissa's grip. "Anyway, not-so-subtle threats aside... Thank you."

Melissa nodded, gave him a small smile, and turned away. The door shut with a soft click behind her. Stiles turned to the boy on the bed.

He _was_ still – incredibly still, besides the flutter of his eyelids and his stuttering breaths. Stiles swallowed before advancing any further. Once he was at the boy's side, he carefully lowered himself into the seat planted next to the bed. Pausing for a moment to examine the boy's condition – his greyish skin sallow and body heavily bandaged to cover oozing wounds – he then turned his attention to waking the young man.

"Hey, dude whose name I don't know," Stiles started out gently, sudden awkwardness pressing in on him. "You're probably in a lot of pain right now, and don't want to wake up and face reality or whatever but-" Stiles took a sharp breath. "But you have to. A lot of people have died already because of whatever this thing is, and you're – you're the _only_ one who has survived. And you've got to have at least some kind of clue as to why, and maybe we could use that to help. Okay? So would you _please just_ wake the hell up?"

Stiles never really had a way with words. He had a lot of them, sure; and that generally was the problem. It was just an endless stream of crap that his mouth seemed unable to filter. Surprisingly, however, the injured boy started to stir. His breaths became uneven, his hands twisted into the bed sheets – and then his eyes opened.

"Holy shit," Stiles breathed, leaping to his feet and stumbling backward in his haste to get away.

The boy's eyes – besides the pupils, which were blown and black as a void – were completely white. Where they should have been ocean blue, or maybe warm brown like Stiles's, they were instead like snow, blending into the actual whites of the boy's eyes. Most horrifying of all, however, was the icy trickle of familiarity Stiles felt upon seeing them. He knew those eyes. He had seen eyes like those before. He just couldn't remember whose.

"Well this just got a thousand times creepier," he whispered to himself, hovering uncertainly just before the door. "Why do I even bother watching horror movies when this nightmarish shit is my life –"

Stiles hadn't been expecting an answer. His question had actually been rhetorical ( _Rhetorical,_ damn it). And he certainly hadn't been expecting an answer from the comatose boy opposite.

"This isn't a nightmare," the boy said softly, his voice sounding oddly detached. "It's a dream."

Stiles swallowed thickly, fear an icy fist twisting in his stomach. Sensing an opportunity, though one he was deeply reluctant to take, he asked: "What kind of dream?"

"A beautiful one," the boy whispered. "It's so beautiful. Of course it is. She's here."

"Got yourself a little crush going on there buddy?" Stiles asked, somewhat tactlessly.

"I love her," the boy replied simply.

Stiles cocked an eyebrow, unimpressed. "So I'm assuming that this 'she' is hot. What does she look like? Strawberry blonde hair, perhaps? Green eyes, five foot three...?"

"She is too perfect to describe in words," the boy replied simply again.

Stiles looked at him for a moment, dumbfounded. "Okay, listen buddy, I can't really take much away from that. Any details about her, like facial features? Maybe where she lives? Is she perhaps a psychopathic killer who plays bondage and lacerates her victims for fun?"

"She is everything and anything you could want her to be," the boy said, giving Stiles an empty smile.

"Oh my god, would you please just _specify_ ," Stiles exclaimed, exasperated. Finally deeming the situation to be relatively safe, he plopped back down on the bedside seat.

"She is speaking to me now," the boy explained.

Stiles sat up. "What's she saying?"

"Wonderful things..."

"Things? Things. Are you kidding me with this? The most ambiguous word in the whole freaking dictionary –"

"...Beautiful words."

"Oh for the love of god –"

"She says she does not want me anymore," the boy said sadly. "She says she wants someone else. She says she wants me to die. I want to die."

Stiles went cold. The hospital was warm and stuffy and claustrophobic, and he was cold – as cold as being out exposed in the open, with a vicious wintery wind snapping at his bare skin.

"Okay, wait no –" Stiles began, panicked; but there was no stopping the boy now.

"I want to die," he wailed, beginning to frantically contort like he had been out on the lacrosse field before. "I want to die. I want to die. She doesn't want me. I want to die. She wants you, she doesn't want me. I want to die."

Stiles was at a complete loss as to what to do – words that had come so recklessly to him before now seemed to get stuck in his throat, the ice in his veins freezing him. He did know one thing, however. He had to get the other boy to calm down.

"Hey, it's okay," Stiles said, trying to keep his voice steady and placating. "It's okay, you're gonna be okay. You're gonna be fine –"

"No, I'm not," the boy spat. His eerie white eyes shifted and snapped onto Stiles's. They seemed to glow with intensity. "It's all your fault! It's your fault! It's your fault!"

Stiles paled. This wasn't working. He had to get out of here before someone heard the commotion. Stiles pushed his chair back from the bed, and made to stand – but the boy's hand caught his wrist. Slicked with perspiration, it was sticky; and with those long pale fingers, Stiles couldn't help but think of a white spider, latching itself onto his skin.

Fighting the fear that threatened to paralyse him, Stiles tried to tear his arm away. When the fingers finally began to slip from his wrist, he made to dash from the room – only to find the same hands curl themselves around his neck instead.

Stiles choked, and his body reeled back. The next thing he knew, he and the other body had hurtled down to the floor. The impact was hard, ripping the air from his lungs – but when Stiles tried to gasp for breath, he found he was unable. The other boy was straddling him, hands wrapped around his neck in a death grip, choking him. Killing him.

"He... help...!" Stiles gasped out. His hands tried to grapple at the other boy's, but oxygen deprivation was already taking its toll. The world had turned grey and started to tilt.

"It's all your fault," the boy sobbed. Stiles wasn't listening. His hands continued to fumble. Mouth open, it groped uselessly for breath...

"She doesn't want me."

The grey in his vision was growing darker in its tone. Marble, steel, ash...

"She wants _you._ "

...And then black.

Suddenly, there came a crashing sound. Stiles was too unaware of his surroundings to know what it was – he felt as though he were floating; head lolled back, blissfully unaware, swimming in the glimmering black. It took him a moment to realise. He wasn't swimming. He was drowning. He couldn't _breathe-_

And then Stiles woke with a start, gasping in sharply before beginning to cough. His throat felt tight, and seemed to radiate with pain – it was hideous, as though the entire lining of his throat was a raw, bleeding wound. The coughing tore through his body, leaving him retching and shuddering. He rolled onto his front, hands braced against the floor.

Realisation came to Stiles slowly, like a dull throb that later develops into a headache. He was on the floor of the hospital; Melissa was there, along with a few other doctors – they were struggling to hold the other boy down. He was screaming and gurgling, spit dribbling from his chin in a long, gooey string. Stiles couldn't help but cringe.

Finally, his coughing fit came to an end. Stiles continued to breathe in rasps for a while after that – a far better alternative to feeling as though he was hacking up a lung – and collapsed onto his side. Confusion and distress marred any logical thought that might have entered his brain then. What the hell had just happened?

"Melissa?" Stiles croaked. Had she not come in, or even been a few moments later... he would be dead. That thought alone was enough to spur Stiles into action. He clambered to his feet, his movements clumsy as the remnants of adrenaline shuddered through his system.

"You, young man – _you_ have a death wish," Melissa said through heavy breaths, pointing an accusatory finger at him. "You're coming with me, to the front desk. And you bet your ass I'm calling your father."

Stiles's shoulders sagged. "It's not like I asked the dude to go on a rampage and strangle me."

"Now what exactly were you doing in here then?" one of the other doctors in the room piped up, having finally been able to sedate the younger man. Stiles's eyes flicked to his motionless form, and bile began to claw at his already sore throat.

"I'm a classmate of his," Stiles explained, keeping his voice as steady and earnest as you could while lying. If you wanted to keep the supernatural concealed, you had to learn deception pretty quickly. "I was one of the boys who called the ambulance earlier. He woke up, I asked him if he was alright – and he just went crazy on me."

"Is that all you did?" the doctor inquired, dubious. "Is there nothing else that might have triggered him?"

Stiles swallowed. "That's it."

Melissa studied Stiles for a moment – her expression was one he was familiar with, one that conveyed both her motherly care and unadulterated fury. Stiles feared that expression. Stiles knew that expression meant he was lined up for slaughter. Bracing himself for a thorough scolding, he allowed Melissa to drag him from the room.

"Stiles," she hissed, taking him by the arm down the hospital corridor. "I thought I told you to be careful – not only because I could lose my job, but more importantly because you could have gotten yourself killed. What is it with you boys and self-preservation?"

"Believe it or not, that was actually a fairly mild occurrence given what we've been up against before," Stiles said with a shrug. "If anything, being attacked by a psychotic nutjob is pretty much the norm."

"Normal is a relative term," Melissa huffed out. Stiles had thought she was taking him to the front desk, until she made an unexpected turn into a new patient's room. Melissa turned to face him directly then. Placing both hands on his shoulders, she plonked him down on the bed.

Once Stiles was seated, she began to bustle about the room, dark mahogany curls bouncing with vigour as she moved – snapping on rubber gloves, grabbing a clipboard. Stiles watched her quietly, working his lips between his teeth.

It was only now that he realised how much older Melissa appeared. Maybe he simply hadn't taken the time to notice, or maybe life was just wearing her down. Either way, it was undeniable that there was a tightness to Melissa's lips that hadn't been there a couple years before, and her once smooth tan skin had now formed creases; most noticeably along her forehead, where a frown usually found its place.

When Stiles was young, he had always thought Melissa was an ageless figure. It was only now really that he realised – she wasn't. Childhood often gave you blissful ignorance and naivety; but as naivety often works, as it unravels you start to see an ugly truth hidden behind the pretty lie.

It took him a moment to register that Melissa stood in front of him now. Normally, she was a few inches shorter than him; but Stiles was both sat down, and she was an undeniable force of nature – and so Stiles couldn't help but shrink into himself. He knew he looked like a child in that moment, a child about to receive his scolding. But Melissa seemed to notice this, and her expression softened.

"Stiles, you've got bruising all around your neck. It's pretty much my obligation as a doctor to check that out," she explained gently. Dusky light from the window both highlighted and shadowed her face; deepening the wrinkles he had noticed before, but spilling warmth into the dark chocolate of her eyes. In that motherly gaze, Stiles not only saw Scott – but himself.

"I'm fine," he replied, struggling to keep his tone neutral. He shifted uncomfortably on the hospital bed. "Just a couple bruises, that's all. They'll heal, so they can wait. But whatever's going on with that guy, _that_ –"

"-Can wait too," Melissa interrupted, giving him a warning look. Stiles was disgruntled, but he relented. With a soft smile, Melissa placed her fingertips on either side of his neck and gently titled his head. Stiles tried, but failed, to conceal his wince. Melissa looked just as pained as him then. "Yup... some definite bruising. No serious damage from what I can tell though – I'll get you some ibuprofen. You're lucky. Very lucky."

"Well, that's me," Stiles said with a weak grin. "That's why I refuse to get rid of the Jeep; I'm pretty sure it's my lucky mascot."

"You're also reckless," Melissa told him angrily. Stiles looked up at her, surprised. He often forgot that Melissa was like her son – she was only angry when she cared. He made eye contact with her then, but struggled to maintain it.

"Sorry," he said quietly.

"Your father asked me to keep an eye on you this weekend," Melissa said, carefully removing her fingertips from his bruised throat. "And god, can I see why."

Stiles looked down, twiddling his thumbs. "Yeah, I know." Agitated, he then ran a hand raggedly through his hair. "I know I'm a pain in the ass. It's like having two jobs, managing me. What an already stressed single parent would want with me, an 18 year old kid hiked up on adrenaline and ADHD –"

"He told me –" Melissa interrupted, only to pause. She took a sharp, deep breath. Stiles looked at her expectantly. Seeming to come to a decision, she placed herself down on the bed beside him. Her voice was tender now. "He told me you've been feeling rough lately. More impulsive than usual – having low moods for no reason..."

Stiles went cold. "He told you I've got depression."

"Stiles," Melissa sighed. She leaned over, meaning to take his hand in hers; but Stiles twisted away. It stung him, to see the hurt flash across Melissa's features – but the betrayal he felt dug deeper, like a knife being twisted in, not a pinprick.

"No, it's fine. I'm fine, and I – I don't know why he told you told you that," Stiles stood up suddenly. His fingers went to his pockets, and jangled the keys to his Jeep in there. He began to hastily make his way over to the door. "Listen, I have to go. I'm fine, really. But people are dying, something's seriously wrong with that kid back there, and someone's gotta do something about it –"

"Stiles, you can't keep distracting yourself with these cases," Melissa said delicately, moving to stand as well. She began to approach him, slow and calm – but if anything, that made Stiles feel even more off the rails. It was like he was an animal, something so reckless and impulsive that everybody around him had to tread carefully. "If you need to talk, if there's something bothering you –"

"I'm _fine,_ alright?" Stiles told her sharply. "There – there _is_ nothing bothering me, and that's the problem. I don't have any right to be sad, so – so why should I? God, I just –" He stopped himself. Reaching for the door, he didn't dare look back to Melissa. "It's nothing."

"Oh, Stiles –" Melissa's voice had dropped to a low, pained whisper. Stiles couldn't stand it. He couldn't stand to be another person's burden. He suspected he'd already driven his dad away for the weekend because of it.

"Just don't tell Scott okay? _Please,_ don't," he said, impossibly tired now. "I just want to feel like I'm normal. I don't need another person looking at me in a different way – like you are now, like I'm some sort of –"

He cut himself off, unable to stand the bitter taste of the words. Swinging open the door, Stiles practically ran out of the room. He just needed to get away, get _away_ , _get away._ Behind him, in his desperation, he had left Melissa wilted and crestfallen.

He couldn't help it. He just couldn't _breathe_ in that damn room. Ever since his mother's disease, he'd hated hospitals. But when Stiles got outside, strangely, he couldn't really breathe out there either.


	2. Hell Is Made Of Ice

By the time Stiles had made his way out of the hospital, it was dusk. The sky was the colour of a spring night – swirls of pink and lavender pastels were at the horizon, and the dark hue of a bluebell overshadowed them all. Stars were speckled everywhere, a light celestial dusting across the display. Though the storm brewing from before seemed to have subsided, ashy clouds still lurked around.

Stiles tipped his head up, and allowed himself a private smile. He'd never really been one to appreciate nature – preferring the vibrant, beating heart that was the city – but he found there was no denying its beauty. For the first time in a long while he found himself at peace, just watching the trees ruffle in the gentle breeze...

And then something shifted in the air. The sky had clouded over again, shadowing the world in grim grey tones. The streetlights crackled to life, but their garish orange glow was meek and gave birth to shadows – shadows that seemed to be alive, shapes within shapes shifting and writhing.

Having been so absorbed with his fallout with Melissa, it was only then that Stiles realised quite how quiet it was. No cars or people were to be seen. The silence was too loud, the air around suddenly too cold.

Stiles found himself shivering, and his breaths came out in glittering plumes. When he was younger, he and Scott used to call it 'dragon breath'. They would run around, and roar and blow steam at one another during the winter. But it wasn't winter now. It was spring. And only a few moments before, the breeze had been tepid – not like ice.

"And to think, there are people out there who think global warming isn't a thing," Stiles muttered, giving himself a thorough shake as he made his way over to the Jeep. With chattering teeth, he swung open the door and clambered inside. He was quick to sink down into the seat and drop his head into his heads, suddenly overcome with exhaustion.

It took him a few moments to realise someone else was in the Jeep with him.

" _Holy_ mother of god-"

Stiles gave a jolt, kicking his legs out in a shocked spasm. He ended up kneeing himself in the face, and was sent in a clumsy sprawl to the Jeep's floor. There he lay splayed in a very inelegant – and suggestive – position.

" _SCOTT!"_

"What?" Scott asked innocently, a grin plastered across his face that conveyed everything _but_ innocence. He sat with his arms folded in the passenger seat, dirt smeared across his clothes and his hair looking like it had been styled by rolling through several bushes and piles of leaves.

"We talked about this," Stiles complained. He slapped a hand to his now bruising cheek, and tried his best to ignore the pain the sudden movement had caused his neck. "No werewolf sneaking. Announce your presence. Save a life."

Scott's grin didn't falter. "Save a life?"

"Yeah, _mine_. Every damn time you sneak up on me like that, I have a minor freaking heart attack," Stiles told him, working his jaw indignantly as he clambered back into his seat. "And bearing in mind it's a heart attack, it is in its very nature _not minor._ "

Scott finally sobered up enough to look apologetic. "Sorry, dude."

"Eh, you get used to it," Stiles sighed, waving a flippant hand. "Anyway, how come you look like a bush threw up in your hair? Did you manage to track that guy's scent?"

"Well, yeah," Scott said with a slight frown. "It led out into the Preserve, as it turns out. I didn't get much though; it ended at a clearing. But when it stopped, there was a new scent over the top of it. I think that might be our killer."

Stiles shoved the Jeep into ignition, and peeled off out of the hospital parking lot. "Great, we can use that – hopefully track the killer before they next attack, right?"

"I don't know, Stiles," Scott replied, shaking his head. "There was something off about the scent."

"What do you mean? What was off about it?" Stiles asked slowly. The tone had shifted from light-hearted to melancholy rather abruptly, and there was something about Scott's expression that made him feel uneasy. Almost instinctually, his body stiffened – sensing and bracing itself for the blow before it could come.

"It smelt like a bow – the wood from a bow," Scott said quietly. "Allison's bow."

Shock was a sensation Stiles was used to; he was practically numb to it nowadays. But at this revelation, even he felt a sharp pain in his chest, as though someone had gripped his heart and given it a vicious wrench.

"How is that even possible?" he asked, his voice raw and thick.

"I don't know," Scott whispered. His eyes went to search Stiles's then, as though he was lost and somehow Stiles could help him find the way. But Stiles couldn't. He felt just as lost. Yet he was meant to be Scott's compass – he was meant to help, to be guiding. Instead, he was cracked and broken inside. Indecipherable. And what use did that make him to Scott now?

"It can't be her," Stiles breathed. Keeping one hand on the wheel, he moved the other to his hair – and after threading his fingers through the thick strands, he gave them a desperate tug, as if by doing that he could somehow jolt the answer from his head.

"I used to smell that wood on her fingertips after she'd done archery practise," Scott went on, his expression growing distant. "And that's not the only thing. It smelt like her old shampoo too – vanilla and honey. When Allison... when she was still alive, it was one of my favourite things about her. Seeing her, smelling her scent – in a non-creepy way of course – and just feeling... happy, you know? The weirdest thing was probably the fact it smelt like pizza too."

Stiles's head perked up, and he looked at Scott incredulously. "Pizza? Seriously?"

"That's all I can really describe it as," the werewolf shrugged. "So what do you think?"

Stiles contemplated for a moment, his fingers moving to nervously drum along his jawline. He had no idea what to say – it just didn't make any sense. How could Allison be involved with any of this? She wasn't a murderer when alive, and she certainly couldn't be one when dead. So _who_ had it been?

"What do I think? God, I – I don't know what I think," Stiles finally sighed. He tried to keep his concentration on the road, but it was slipping – suddenly, everything just felt overwhelming. School, the supernatural killings, nearly having been killed _himself..._

For some reason and very much involuntarily, he found himself looking over at the anti-depressants. Taking them was supposed to make things easier. And maybe, after everything... maybe that wouldn't be so bad-

 _Oh god._ The anti-depressants. They were on the floor just besides Scott's feet. What if he had found them? What if he had already seen? Stiles's heart gave a sudden, sickening lurch – and Scott, the human heart monitor, picked up on the abrupt blip in his friend's beat almost immediately.

"Hey, what is it?" he asked, concerned. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, it's nothing," Stiles stammered out, slapping both hands back down on the steering wheel. "It's just thrown me off, I guess. But I do know one thing – it can't be Allison. It _can't_ be. It has to be someone else impersonating her or something. I mean, Allison never smelt of pizza, right? Pizza's just your favourite food."

"Yeah, you're right," Scott said hoarsely. "It was stupid to think otherwise, but – well, you know..."

"I know. It's Allison," Stiles finished for him. Scott didn't seem able to say anything more, so merely gave a nod. Turning his head briefly, Stiles give his friend a small, rueful smile. Scott returned it gratefully.

"We'll get through this though. We'll figure it out," the werewolf finally said, heaving out a sigh. "We always do."

Stiles didn't know what happened next, or even why it came about. Scott's words had triggered something inside of him. His chest just seemed to cave in on itself then, and he found himself falling into the hollowness left behind, spiralling and tumbling. He didn't have the energy to struggle anymore. So he just let go, and the emptiness consumed him.

"Okay, but Scott – what if we don't?"

"What do you mean?" Scott asked, looking bemused.

"What if one day we don't," Stiles repeated blandly. He refused to look at Scott, only facing the road ahead. They had nearly arrived at the McCall's residence now. "What if one day we just can't figure it out and we don't save the world? What happens to us then?"

"That hasn't happened yet," Scott insisted.

"Yeah, _yet,_ " Stiles snapped. He had been resisting the fear and exhaustion that had been threatening to drown him before – but now he just gave himself up to it utterly, allowing himself to sink. "Scott, just because it hasn't happened yet doesn't mean it won't. We can't just – we can't rely on our luck all of the time. And this time..."

He trailed off. Stiles knew it was a futile effort to challenge Scott's idealism – where he was pessimistic, Scott was unflinchingly optimistic. And normally, he would accept that. In fact, he even thought they complimented each other. Cancelled one another out. But today, Stiles felt different. Everything felt different.

"This time, I don't think we'll be okay," he finished quietly.

"What?" his friend asked, blinking several times. "Stiles, I – I don't get it."

"Don't you?" Stiles demanded, wringing his hands on the steering wheel. "Or are you just trying to ignore what I'm saying? Ignore the problem so you don't have to face the reality of it?"

There was a moment of dumbfounded silence.

"That's the opposite of what I'm doing," Scott finally said, voice hard and indignant. He turned away to face the window, his breathing heavy. Passing trees imprinted flitting shadows on his skin. "Why do you think I just went out into the middle of the freaking woods to track that guy's scent? Why do you think I've now got a D in Econ because I left lacrosse practise ten minutes early? We're tackling this problem face on, as best as we can – so how the hell is that ignoring it?"

Stiles shook his head, biting down on his lip savagely. He couldn't think of anything to say, couldn't think of any way he could snap back at Scott. He wasn't even sure why he wanted to. A savage energy was pulsating through his veins, making his muscles twitch with _want._ Want to punch, to shout, to do anything but have the _real_ conversation that needed to be had with his best friend.

"I know what this is about," Scott told him. He seemed to have steadied himself, and though his breathing still was heavy, genuine tenderness was in his gaze.

"You do?" Stiles asked, doubtful. He turned to look pleadingly at his friend then, and _god,_ he just needed someone to understand – to understand _him._ He needed someone else to try and figure him out because he was lost, a complete mess, and he didn't know what to do.

"I saw the anti-depressants," Scott said quietly.

Stiles slammed down on the brakes. The Jeep came to a jarring halt, snapping both boy's forward. Injured neck jolted by the abruptness, Stiles had to tightly purse his lips to fight against the pain-filled cry that ached to be heard. They had arrived at the McCall residence.

There was silence. It was painful, excruciating. Stiles was breathing raggedly, in a mental battle with himself – struggling to both meet the demands of reality and crush the parasitic thoughts that always seemed to be burrowed in his head nowadays.

A lump in his throat bobbed up and down, and not for the first time that day, he found himself wordless. This wasn't how he was meant to be. He was meant to be smart, outspoken. Not someone moronically staring at Scott with a rigid jaw and stupefied expression.

Scott seemed disconcerted by his response, and found he was the one having to fill the awkward silence for once. "I think it's called projection. As in – what you were saying before about me ignoring the problem. I think – I think that's what _you're_ doing. Trying to distract yourself with this case so, you don't have to face the reality of what you're going through. And whatever that is, I'll help yo-"

"Distract myself? Where did you hear that?" Stiles inquired sharply, finding his voice again. "Did your mom call you?"

"Well... yeah," Scott frowned, realising his mistake. "She told me not to discuss anything with you but – Stiles, how could I not notice the fact all I smell on you today is stress and anxiety? Or all the bruising on your neck?" His tone turned sympathetic then, and Stiles couldn't bear to look at him as he went on. "Stiles, that guy _attacked_ you – you could have _died –_ and you're just shrugging it off like nothing ever happened."

Scott's eyes flitted over to the packet of anti-depressants on the floor then. The packet of pills Stiles had so desperately tried to conceal. Now, he knew it had been a futile effort. Now, Stiles felt as though his heart was on the ground with those anti-depressants, dejected and unwanted and like anybody could to crush and grind him into the dirt.

His nostrils flared, and suddenly he couldn't stand it. He just could not stand it anymore. Reaching over to Scott's side of the Jeep, he viciously pulled back on the handle and shoved open the door.

"Get out," Stiles seethed.

Scott looked forlorn. "Stiles, what-"

"Get the hell out. Get out _now,_ or I swear to god-" Stiles came to an abrupt stop, unable to breathe. His lungs seemed to be giving him only shallow and rapid puffs of air. It was horrible – as if drowning but being surrounded by oxygen, or crying for help in a room full of friends, yet not having a single head turn your way.

 _Panic attack,_ a distant voice in his mind told him.

"Stiles, come on," Scott sounded distressed, and Stiles hated himself for being the cause of his best friend's pain. He hated himself for what he was about to do now.

"Just get the fuck out of my Jeep," he said again. His words came out in a rasp from him being starved of breath – but they were still cold, scathing. He finally managed to regulate his breathing, and readied himself to deliver his next words with hard, harsh conviction. "I can figure this out myself. _By_ myself."

Scott gave him one last pleading look, but Stiles constructed his features into a carefully blank, almost callous mask – and ignored him. He turned his head to face the other way, pursed his lips tight, and he ignored Scott.

He wanted to say he was sorry. He wanted to ask Scott to help. He wanted his best friend to take him in his arms, like that time they were eight and Stiles had bust his knee, and he wanted to hug him for a long, long time.

Instead, he was silent. Instead, he did nothing but listen to the door of the Jeep slam shut. And then he was alone again.

The Jeep's windows were open, music was blasting out, and the accelerate was pressed firmly down. The world outside the vehicle was just a melee of blurred colours as it sped by – midnight blue, silvery moonlight, dark green and black. Stiles knew he was going fast too fast. He knew he should have slowed down. The road through the Beacon Hills Preserve was bumpy, riddled with potholes. Instead, he gripped the steering wheel tighter and pressed the pedal to the floor.

With the music on full volume and suitably deafening – a loud, gritty song on repeat – even the thoughts that pervaded Stiles's mind, demanding to be heard, were drowned out. He gritted his teeth. He could do this. He would go down to the clearing Scott had said the scent led to, he would find the murderer, and he would solve the case. He didn't need anyone. He could do this himself.

Slamming down on the breaks, Stiles parked the Jeep haphazardly on the side of the road and pulled out the engine key. The immediate silence was startling – the music cut off, the warm purr of the Jeep dead. Stiles sat in the quiet and still for a moment. His heavy breathing and the distant wallows of birds were the only sounds. He couldn't stand it. Already, the voices were loud in his head again.

 _You can't do this. You're useless, pathetic. And anyone that could help, you've driven away._

Stiles slammed his fist down on the wheel, not caring for the pain that jolted up his arm as a result. Something was wrong inside of him. He could feel it, this awful thing – a parasite that had taken root in his heart, leeching off his blood and pain and infecting everything.

Twisting around in his seat, Stiles grabbed his bag from the back and shifted through his inventory. The aluminium bat, adderal and flashlight he had packed were in there, along with his crappy old IPod. Still unable to find his phone, he figured that would have to do. Not bothering to put headphones in, he found the song he had been listening to before, put it on full volume, and slung himself out of the Jeep.

After he thumbed on the flashlight, Stiles tucked his IPod into the pocket of his plaid shirt and gripped his bat in his free hand. It was twilight but where stars should have twinkled, the sky was instead still choked by the smoky storm clouds. Stiles anticipated a downpour would come soon; rain had already started to trickle and patter down through the leaves.

Rolling his shoulders, he made towards the deeper parts of the woods. Stiles knew vaguely where he was going; there were a few clearings around the Beacon Hills Preserve, and he suspected the one Scott had found was nearest to the school – about a ten minute walk from where he had parked the Jeep. Given the traumatised state they had found the boy in, it was unlikely he had come from much further away than that.

As he made his way through the woods, Stiles whistled faux-merrily along to his song, tripping over debris every so often. Around him, trees moaned and leaves hissed in the bitter-cold wind that had picked up. Thin moonlight dripped through the dense thicket, illuminating only sparse amounts of the woodland; the occasional silver-coated leaf that would glint wickedly like a knife, or piles of detritus that crawled with worms and mites.

Stiles felt a chill creep up his spine. He was familiar with the sensation now, having felt unusually cold many times that day already. He couldn't fathom it, given that the date and previous weather had told him it was spring.

 _Unless something else is causing the cold. Something besides the weather,_ a little voice whispered to him. Stiles didn't like that voice. Tucking his hands under his armpits, he tried to gather warmth.

After a laborious walk through the Preserve, the trees and bushes finally parted to reveal the clearing. It was sparse – merely consisting of a blanket of twigs, leaves and grass. There, without the shelter, wind roared and rain pelted down viciously. Taking a breath, Stiles braced himself for the storm. And then he stepped out into the clearing.

And the most curious thing happened.

It had been raining before. Stiles was sure it had been raining. Water droplets had formed at the ends of the strands of his precipitation-mussed hair; his clothes were sticky with damp and would have to be practically peeled off his limbs. And yet, in the clearing, it was snowing.

It was like white glitter, fluttering down from the grey sky. The ground that had once appeared green and brown before now had a soft quilt made of fine ice crystals. It was quiet here. Dead. Stiles's music had stopped playing. He took another tentative step out into the clearing. Ice crunched and crackled beneath his feet.

"Walking in the winter wonderland my ass," he whispered to himself. "More like trundling through the freezing icy hell."

His breath came out in a billow of steam, just like it had been back at the hospital parking lot. That felt like a million years ago now. It was almost as if Stiles were in a different world, having stepped out into the clearing and become part of the most bizarre snow globe.

But even though his surroundings were different, his reason for being there was not – Stiles had to find the killer, and the snowy landscape he had stumbled upon was a dead giveaway that something supernatural was going on here specifically. But Stiles was starting to realise maybe he was out of his depth. Deep down, he knew he shouldn't have been there on his own. He had no idea what he was doing. And would it really be that bad to call Scott-?

His thoughts were cut off by a smell. Caught in the breeze, it blew over to him gently. It filled his lungs with a pungent aroma that nearly caused him to stumble off his feet. He couldn't help it, though. It smelt just like her.

It smelt like sandalwood, charred cookies – a warm hug on a rainy day. It smelt like his mom. But it wasn't just her; it was strawberry blonde hair, it was his father's coat. His favourite cuddly bear as a kid. And it smelt like Scott, of course.

Stiles couldn't help himself. He took another step into the clearing. Then another. Another step closer... Closer to what? He wasn't sure, and he didn't particularly care. He just wanted to wrap his arms around his mother, because it had to be her. It had to be _her._

Her. She.

 _She doesn't want me._

He took another step.

 _She wants_ _ **you.**_

Stiles jolted, shocking himself from his daze. What was the hell was he doing? He hadn't been aware of himself for a moment – he had just been ready to step out into an icy nothingness, and he had no idea why. That thought scared him. That thought scared him more than anything.

With numb legs, Stiles began to stagger backwards and out of the clearing. He had to get away. There was something living in that storm of winter and deathly cold. And the longer he looked, the surer of it he became. It was like swimming in murky water, and not being able to see what lay beneath. Anything could reach out and grasp you, pull you away.

Stiles started to run. His legs thudded against the tundra, numbed by adrenaline and the cold. His heart thundered, panicked and frantic to the point where each pump made Stiles's chest ache. But he had to keep going. He had to run, run fast, run faster than ever before.

Because he was starting to remember things.

He remembered the woman at the edge of the lacrosse field. He remembered her eyes, how they had almost appeared white – just like the boy's, who had screamed at him a warning he only now could recall. And god, how the hell _could_ he forget that? Someone was coming after him, someone who was likely the killer – and it had completely slipped his mind. _How?_

Questions are things that keep you alive. Questions give you answers, and with answers you can best prepare yourself for what is coming. But more importantly, questions keep you alive when unanswered. Because unanswered, you know you're facing the unknown – something alien, something _else_. And so you start running, frightened. You don't stop. You stay alive that way.

Right now, Stiles had a million questions.

And not a single answer.

He had finally reached the edge of the clearing, but refused to stop. He sprinted onto the soggy woodland, where the snowstorm had dropped away to rain again. Not daring to look back, Stiles tried to keep running; but that was the problem. He realised his run was slowing to a jog.

Initially, he thought it to be from exhaustion – his lungs hoarse and pulse palpitating – but it wasn't that. It felt as though his muscles were literally freezing. They had begun to seize up, becoming impossible to keep working. Frost was in his veins, and rime was coalescing over his heart. He began to stagger then, struggling to even _move_. He let out choked cry.

It became quite apparent to Stiles then that snow from the clearing might have been gone – but the chill on his skin was not. He was still being hunted. Hunted by whatever he had happened to stumble across in that blizzard. But he couldn't stop. He had to get to his Jeep, get to help. Before whatever was behind got to him first.

"Come on, come on," Stiles hissed in frustration. He willed his limbs to work faster, but they still seemed to move with slow, jolting, animated movements – like a puppet being played by the puppeteer. Stiles hated the cliché, but he couldn't help but think it was true now. It seemed no matter how desperately he tried, he simply wasn't gaining any ground; as though he really were suspended just like that puppet, being jangled and controlled by something else.

Suddenly, the Jeep came into sight. Stiles's eyes lit up, and he somehow managed to muster the strength to move forward. Rain battered him. Trees shuddered violently. The wind wailed like a banshee's scream, and Stiles really hoped that cry wasn't for him. _Keep going. You're nearly there, keep going._

He tripped.

He managed to steady himself, but barely.

 _Just keep going._

And finally, Stiles reached the Jeep. At some point, he had dropped his torch – unable to keep his grip on it because of his frozen hand – but he still had his aluminium bat, and the keys to the Jeep tucked in his pocket. Stiles fumbled with them for a moment – he had his back turned and exposed to whatever lurked behind, and the unbearable paranoia he had felt before made his struggles desperate and clumsy – but finally, he managed to grasp the keys with icy fingers, and unlock the door.

Hauling himself into the Jeep, Stiles quickly locked the car and flicked on the warm air conditioning. Not wasting another moment, he then jerked the Jeep into action and shot off – narrowly escaping the predator he had left behind. Or so he thought.

He could feel the warmth of the heating on his skin, but it didn't seem to be working. Cold still pervaded through his veins, his hands like blocks of ice. Whatever this creature stalking him was, it wasn't going to give up easily.

"Son of a bitch," Stiles whispered to himself. He suddenly found himself unable to steer properly, or remove his foot from the accelerate. His joints had frozen into place. How the hell was this _thing_ able to do this? Was it some kind of ice spirit or something?

Questions that he couldn't answer. Questions that, this time, wouldn't help.

Stiles felt hysteria build up in his lungs; he could barely breathe through the tightness in his chest, through the panic suffocating him. The Jeep's speedometer was steadily going up – ten... twenty... thirty... And his foot was still stuck in place, firmly pressed down on the accelerate. He couldn't break. He couldn't even steer the wheel.

Stiles knew then. He was going to die.

People say there's peace, right at the very end. There wasn't for him. There was panic.

Stiles began frantically making a list. A list of names, of his loved ones and their faces. If he was going to die, they had to be the last thought on his mind. They were the only things that mattered to him.

His dad and his sea-foam eyes, crinkled at the corners from too many years of narrowing them at his son. Malia, with her unapologetic bluntness but sweet smile. Lydia, whose eyes were green like a forest he too often lost himself in. And Scott, his best friend, his brother-

Stiles didn't finish that thought. He wanted to, he desperately wanted to. He wished he had had enough time, but he didn't, because he was cut off by the Jeep careening off the road.

After that, there was silence. Weightlessness. And then metal screeching, and tumbling, and rattling. The world was spiralling away from Stiles in an incomprehensible, nauseating pinwheel. There was silence for another moment – a brief reprieve as the Jeep was suspended in mid-air as it overturned. And then more tumbling, screaming. Colours were warped; glass flew through the Jeep like spitting rain, and it seemed as though this hell Stiles had found himself in would never end.

But it did. He must have passed out at some point. One moment all he could hear was chaos, the next – it was quiet. Glass tinkled, metal creaked. There was the occasional hitch in his pained breathing. Besides that, there was silence. There was still. Stiles blinked, sleepy and slow. He couldn't quite make sense of anything, and he didn't want to, really. He just wanted to lie there, and let the darkness take him.

This was before he saw the figure approaching him. He saw her through the windshield, the only white in the black of the night. She walked with purposeful strides, smiling. And her eyes were glowing. Suddenly, Stiles wanted nothing more to be out of that Jeep and running. He began to blindly grapple at his seatbelt – but panicked; his hands cut by glass, and still gripped by the ice that had seized his muscles before, his efforts to escape were futile.

"No, no, no, _no,_ " he began to chant in a whisper. He turned desperately to the Jeep's door, and tugged at it – but ice had begun to crawl across the metal framework, freezing it in place. Stiles whipped his hand back. The frosty intricacies spread into the interior of the Jeep then, and they would have been eerily pretty were they not caging him in.

Stiles knew he had to do something. He couldn't just let himself die. But he had no escape plan and time was already wearing thin. If only he'd brought Scott, maybe this wouldn't have happened. It was bad enough he'd already nearly died once today – his throbbing neck a sharp reminder of that. He didn't even have his phone, for _god's sake-_

There came a light, pleasant tap from the now-broken window of the driver's seat. His time was up. And he hadn't managed to get away. Stiles slowly turned his head – wincing at the pain it caused his neck – and met eyes with his killer. He had been right before. Her eyes were white; cold snow against his warm brown.

The woman standing beside his slumped, barely-conscious form smiled pleasantly. In her hand, she held something. She dangled it before Stiles, tantalisingly. The object seemed incongruous to her celestial form – being sleek and modern and electronic – but it was there nonetheless. His phone.

She'd had it the entire time. Stiles felt his heart slowly sink as he realised this had been planned. That she'd been close enough to him to grab the phone in the first place.

"Please don't," he whispered. He hated himself for pleading. He thought he saw her smile again, but he couldn't really make out her features properly. Almost blinded by the bright light she emanated, a stark contrast to the darkness all around, it made her features seem blurred. Besides those horrible eyes, of course.

Stiles's vision was clear enough to make out her reaching through the Jeep's broken window, though. He tried to flinch away, but the cold had all but overcome his muscles and joints now. All he could do was let his head loll back against the headrest, and watch with heavy-lidded eyes as she gently laid her hand against his chest.

There came the sound of crackling and ice popping, A steel blue glow formed at the woman's fingertips – and then it began to pulse out, stabbing into Stiles's skin. He tried to cry out, but found he was unable. It was as if his insides had solidified, turned to ice. The sensation began to spread rapidly through him; numbing his fingertips, his limbs, until it reached his lungs and squeezed. The air left him then.

" _St-stop..._ " Stiles just managed to whisper, barely able to form a single word. He willed his muscles to move, to do _anything._ But nothing happened. No-one was coming. He was going to die here, alone.

Oxygen deprivation slowly crept up on him then. It started as grey in his vision, before feeling like the blood in his veins was trying to curl in on itself. The blurry face of the woman became blurrier still.

He began to make that list again. The Sheriff, Malia, Lydia and Scott. _His father, his first loves, his best friend._ He tried to conjure their faces in his head, but found he was too tired and couldn't quite remember them anyway.

 _His father, his first loves, his best friend._

When he had first thought he was going to die, he had been panicked. Now, he only felt peace. He could almost have been falling asleep, and so he allowed himself to do just that.

 _His father, his first loves, his best friend._

His eyes fluttering shut, the last thing he saw was the smiling face of his killer...

 _His father, his first loves, his best friend._

...And then there was nothing.

* * *

 _Author's Note: Don't worry, this is not the end! I love Stiles far too much to do that to him. Also, thank you all for being patient with me, I'm sorry it took so long to update - life got crazy, but it's all good now and hopefully future updates will be a lot more consistent!_

 _Additional (not so) fun fact, I wrote this chapter roughly a year ago, which happens to coincide with when my depression began - I feel pretty connected to the story now, so I hope I can do it justice :)_


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